Insomnia
by Simplyjordan1
Summary: After the war Harry suffers symptoms from insomnia. A mental illness that causes inability to sleep. This story is him going through the night. Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. My grammar sucks. Warning: mentions of insomnia, past abuse, and nightmares. if you enjoy it please review. thank you


His hands tapped out a nervous rhythm on the bed frame.

 _Tap tap tap tap tap tap._ Fingernails chewed down to the bed, even bleeding in some spots, but he doesn't mind the pain. Not after what happened. Hands that never stopped moving. Not even in the pitch black room, when all was supposed to be still. But of course he had to be different. But, whether they were tapping constantly on any surface he could find or tracing the long semi-healed scars that lay diagonally across his back and chest, they were moving.

 _Tap, tap, tap_

 _Once twice and then a third time_.

Bloodshot eyes

 _blink once, blink twice, blink a third time._ But those eyes never shut for long. Green eyes that were once so beautiful, that once shone with hope of a good life were dull and void of any emotion. Yeah, he lost that a while ago. Who wouldn't after the terror that he had saw. Haunted eyes remained staring up at the ceiling. Staring as if searching for answers that weren't there. Dark lines cover the underneath of these once gorgeous eyes, suggesting lack of sleep although nobody comments on them, because they are too well hidden. Agitated hands rub these eyes and trace the dark circles, willing them to go away.

But they don't, and the eyes blink once again

and the hands resume tapping

 _Drip._

sweat mattes black as night hair to his forehead. No Matter how cold the room is he couldn't escape the stifling heat that comes in waves every night.

 _Drip._ He doesn't do anything. For what is this suffering compared to when his eyes close for the night. No he would much prefer the choking heat.

 _Drip._ He would wake up sweating anyway, so what's the point. Shining hair leaves dark spots on the pillow. Make that shining, greasy hair. Unwashed and uncared for. Some of this hair falls into his eyes. Shaking hands run through the soaking locks, He closes his eyes for a long time shaking his head.

But the eyes open and start blinking,

the hands lower and start moving,

And the heat keeps increasing, matting the hair to his forehead once again.

A painful whine emits from a sore scratchy throat. If the owner of said throat were to speak it would sound painful and wince worthy.

 _Gulp._ A painful swallow follows this pitiful excuse of a sound. This resulted from hours of screaming himself awake when he accidently closed his eyes for a bit too long the other night. Not that the others heard. There were charms for that. He could heal it later. Maybe he even deserved it. No, he couldn't afford to think like that.

 _Gulp_. Dear god everything hurt. Although not as much as waking up did. A red, scratchy, abused, throat. Painful to talk with; painful to listen to. No Matter how much he screamed and cried

 _gulp_ , no matter how much it hurt… A hand reaches up and starts massaging the throat, hoping to keep the soreness at bay. Eyes close as he swallows painfully. The hand brushes beads of sweat collecting there from the sweltering heat.

But it's no use because the hands can't stay still,

the eyes closing was merely a blink,

the temperature only grows,

and pain follows him on the inside and the out.

 _Boom boom, boom, boom._

The beating of his not so pure heart quickens, then slows, and to speed up again faster than the first time. The one thing that was supposed to be consistent never was.

 _Boom._ Slower. Faster. **Slower. Faster. SLOWER. FASTER.** _ **BOOM.**_

And repeat and repeat and repeat. He could always feel the blood pumping, ready for him to fight or flee. He was always ready to be attacked. I suppose you could think that was sad, but he was used to it by now. If not in real life than he was running away from the horrors of when he dreamt.

 _Boom._ He could practically hear it.

A hand reaches up to calm his racing heart.

Eyes close in bliss as he feels it slow to a not so alarming tempo.

Sweat turns cold and evaporates from the cooling touch on his bare chest.

His throat soothed as he started to cool down.

 _Boom…..boom…..boom…...boom._ And Harry James Potter fell into his first peaceful sleep since the war had ended. Six months ago. Because Mr. Potter had killed that day, and it haunts him almost every time he slips away. And almost every morning He gets up to remove his silencing charms after a sleepless night, and applies a glamour. After all why do people need to know. others have it worse. Or so he believes…. And it starts again. Night after night after night.


End file.
